I Have Stories Left To Tell
by If I Could I Wouldn't
Summary: based on tumblr text post: au: everyone is born with their soulmate's name tattooed on their wrist like a birthmark. (But what if they don't?)


_it's really not healthy to be stuck liking someone from sixteen to twenty-something… oh well... (this is so long, forgive me, and shit, forgive me for that as well, sorry, sorry, sorry)_

_title taken from one of the lines city and colour – northern wind: i have stories left to tell_

_written in second person because i've been reading too much orphan black fanfiction and everything over there is in second. the reason this is without capital letters – tumblr._

_based on tumblr text post: _**au:** everyone is born with their soulmate's name tattooed on their wrist like a birthmark.

_fic songs (not to be listened to in any particular order):_

_- comptine d'un autre été, l'après midi – yann tiersen_

_- northern wind – city and colour_

_- i will follow you into the dark – death can for cutie_

_- all I want - kodaline_

_- i giorni – Ludovico einaudi_

_- home – gabrielle aplin_

…

When you were five your parents sat you down and told you everything in tones that were meant to sooth but gave away their absolute terror of the predicament _their daughter _was in.

They had seemed to have forgotten that it wasn't them that was without what society deemed essential, that the letters on their wrist corresponded to the person sitting directly next to them and that you, at age five, was without the same trait – instead baring smooth white skin that was unblemished by anything.

At age five you didn't really understand why it was important, why did you need to know such as small, insignificant thing? You didn't say anything though, and let your parents fret and worry as you sat on her couch, counting the stains in the worn material.

_1…_

_2…_

_3…_

_4…_

You made it to twenty before your mother took your wrist and led you upstairs. You tried not to think of why your mother had taken where your _letters _should be, and not your hand, your mum _always_ took your hand.

(Then again, your palms were sticky from the juice earlier and you didn't want your mum to know you'd been stealing the juice she'd told you not to touch – again.)

Your mum dragged out a small wooden box, lined with engravings of rose and lavender, lifting them off the dark wood to create images you would have happily tried to copy all day using the simple browns and blacks you had collected in your pencil box.

You didn't get the chance, as soon as Jocelyn had found whatever she had been looking for she box shut and pushed it to the back of the cupboard, where it would once again collect dust.

(You was allergic to dust, it made you sneeze.)

"Here, put this on." Leather encircled your wrist, too big and clumsy to be pulled off by a five year old. It smelled old and musty; the colour washed out and faded, only remaining in the many lines and crevices, creating rivers of mud and bone as patterns to the otherwise featureless accessory. "If anyone asks, say you don't want them to know."

You glance up at your mother's (your) shining green eyes, trying to tell you to say _yes, yes, yes. _

You didn't like the gift, it was heavy and smelled and weighed your whole arm down, but you still smiled and said yes.

Jocelyn seemed to buy it, pulling you into a hug and whispering that everything would be just fine.

(You was a better actor then you thought.)

…

You were ten when Isabelle became curious.

You were sitting under the old oak tree, sitting safely in the shade as the sun beat down on the brown grass of the school grounds. Boys ran around with their ties unravelled, calling out to each other to _pass the ball, idiot _and _why did you do that?_ The girls sat in circles, sharing smiles and secrets and sneaking looks at the teachers to see if they were looking when they exchanged sweets.

Just another day at school you had presumed – until Isabelle had asked you _that _question.

"What's with the baggage?" So maybe it wasn't the exact question, and more directed to your _total lack of fashion sense, _but it was still important – relevant.

Isabelle watched as you turned towards her, your hand automatically going up to your concealed wrist when she had spoken. Nervous habit she must have presumed, you had done it enough times when she was around for her to realise that you _did do that _when you were nervous.

"Em… I don't like…" You were fumbling for words, how to correctly explain something you had never had. You realised you didn't know what it would feel like, to be able to know who it was going to be. Would it be relaxing, just knowing? Or like a weight pressing down on you – that this was it, this was final.

You. Could. Not. Change. It.

"I… I just… don't like… to, em, be controlled." You managed to splutter out. Giving yourself a mental pat on the back for coming up with something plausible and not too far off the truth so the fact that you couldn't lie to save yourself wouldn't become apparent.

_(Because being controlled by yourself seems like a betrayal.)_

Isabelle looks at you for a second before nodding, slowly, and then shuffling closer to you, pressing her lean body against your own stick thin frame.

It doesn't feel right, elbows pocking into your ribs and strands of black hair falling all over your face. (You want to sneeze, but you can't.)

"Here, look," she comes impossibly closer, and you notice she smells like mango and something distinctively _Isabelle._ Her wrist is marked with brown shapes, twisting themselves into recognisable figures. They almost seem to be _under _her skin, ingrained there.

What you happen if you were to take a knife there?

There are only four letters there. A _J, _an _A, _a_ C _and an_ E. _

_J A C E, _pronounced _JC._

jace jace jace jace jacejacejacejacejacejcjcjcjcjc

She continues, not noticing your face or the way you have had to stuff your hand in your pocket to stop her from seeing the trembling. "It's nothing to be scared of really, it's just a name – it doesn't matter unless you make it matter. See, I've chosen to forget all about it. What kind of a name is Jace anyway."

You laugh along with her, but all you can really think of is _jace jace jace._

(You take your hand out of your pocket, but only when your fingers are stained red and the material is dyed blood.)

…

At thirteen people have stopped asking you questions. What's the point anyway when you always answer the same way? It's almost as if they were thinking they could trip you up, make you forget the reason you have said so many times that you almost believe it yourself.

They're at the age now where they have all decided that they're going to find them, the ones whose name is painted in their skin.

(If they continue with the startling determination to hack into every school's profile page they might just find them before they have left school.)

You're among one of the only ones that don't set out every day asking everyone high and low for their identity. You say it's because you believe fate will bring you to them when the time comes, others scoff and laugh, but some understand though you think it is just sheer laziness that they are not on the scavenger hunt as well.

Isabelle isn't looking either, instead she spends most of her time in her room trying out her _rite of passage, _by which she means trying every drug she can get her hands on and becoming another cigarette addict. (She insists she's not though.)

It's another one of _those _days, where people are sitting behind computers which they are supposed to be using to play French games on but are actually listening to music and writing on chat forums.

You sit at the back, a headphone concealed behind your hand, though with how loud the bass is and the screams the people are bellowing out you wonder how the whole class cannot hear it as well. You have the whole desk to yourself since none of your other friends are in this class and Isabelle was away to do some PE related stuff that she complained about _all the time _but still volunteered for.

When he comes to sit next to you, flashing shiny white teeth and perfectly messy hair that must have taken ages to style but has been made not to look like that, you only turn your head a fraction to see who it is before returning to whatever late homework you were writing at the last minute (meaning next lesson).

"So… are you going to ask why I'm here."

You type up another line which is really just a different way to phrase of the last point you made but in similar, less broad terms. The keys go _click, click, click _under your fingers and you deliberately type it without a rhythm as to annoy the boy sitting next to you.

(He plays the piano (always in assembly's – and you secretly enjoy it when he shuts up and plays something beautiful) and you know from experience that there is nothing more annoying than having no beat or one that is not in time with anything where there should be.)

He must have taken your silence as some sort of confirmation that he _should _keep on talking, for a moment you wonder how he came to this conclusion, but quickly drop it when you realise you're looking at the motives behind _Jace Herondale's _actions. You'll be running yourself in circles until the end of the world if you tried to do that.

"I'm sitting here because Alec was looking up flirting tips on the internet…" You try to match _Alec _to a face you've seen and realise, suddenly, that Alec hangs around with Mr. I'm-the-best. Next time you see him you must remember to remind him that choosing _good _friends is important to surviving life. "And you looked lonely."

You ignore the last part, still typing up any clever phrases that at least make _some _sense. "How did that go?" You're only trying to make polite conversation, and asking about Alec is better than talking about yourself.

(And Alec looking up flirting tips definitely _hasn't _spiked your interest.)

Jace is grinning and finally, _finally _placing his bag on the floor and turning to press _ctrl+del+enter _to log on. "Oh, you know, cheesy pickup lines, how to drop sexual innuendoes discreetly – that kind of thing. He was blushing a lot though."

You smile lightly; Alec was always sensitive, "imagine when Magnus actually flirts with him."

Jace doesn't question how you know about Magnus and Alec, even if, for a second, his eyes widen slightly and his mouth opens a fraction, the expression is gone before you have a chance to take a picture. "He'll be tripping all over himself."

Your shoulders shake lightly and you go to press print, but as you turn you manage to see the name etched onto his wrist.

_Isabelle._

_I. S. A. B. E. L. L. E._

isabelleisabelleisabelle.

Isabelle with _JACE _printed like a tattoo on the inside of her arm.

Jace is looking at you weirdly when you grab your bag suddenly and manage to get out a hasty excuse to the teacher about _sick, ill, office, now. _

Isabelle and Jace, Jace and Isabelle.

You know that this is what is supposed to happen, they are meant to be together and you, yourself, alone.

You're trying to find excuses as to why your stomach is heaving and your head aches and you heart wants to rip itself out of your chest but you can't.

_You can't. You can't. You can't._

(Maybe, for one moment, you thought that Jace and Clary sounded better.)

You don't tell Isabelle.

You want to but the words stick in your throat and trying to force the words to come is like trying to force yourself to eat a particularly horrid meal. It's as if your whole body is fighting the information, trying to reject it.

But you just _can't forget _it either.

(You realise you can't do a lot of things.)

…

You hate time zones. Actually, you don't hate the actual time zones; you hate the fact that the British exchange student is so punctual that they call you directly ten minutes after your lunch bell goes. Now, this wouldn't normally have been a problem, but you've been held back for _homework _reasons and then your phones started blasting drums and guitars and fuck the time zones and punctuality and the fact that you keep meaning to change it to a slow acoustic tune so you don't get into this exact situation.

You get detention on top of having to do extra work at home. (They let you keep your phone and perhaps that's the most confusing thing. Why did they let you keep it?)

You call Tessa back and she's all apologies and _oh, I should have called later_ you almost, _almost _feel sorry for her but you're having a bad day and you just can't waste the energy on an exchange student you haven't even met (yet).

After a lengthy conversation and a poor excuse you finish the conversation and end up around the back of the building, trying to see if there is any change at the bottom of your bag to buy whatever you can get your hands on that Raphael is selling.

You're really having a bad day because all you can find is that your drink has exploded and ruined all of your textbooks. You groan and cover your face with your hands, wishing that the earth would just swallow you up and take you somewhere nicer, where your bag isn't ruined and your phone is called by annoying American turned British not-yet exchange student.

Jace finds you in that position ten minutes later, and as soon as you mention even the word detention he gets this odd look on his face. You don't realise what he's got in mind before he's striding up to the nearest student, calling the teacher to look at him then punching the poor boys face so hard that you can hear his knuckles crack from where you're sitting.

"Mr. Herondale! Report to the office right now." And all Jace does is grin, smile, wink at you and then walk away.

It's irresponsible, and reckless and stupid. (It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.)

…

You're sixteen when they finally, _finally _find each other's name's of their wrists. Then, it's like all the years of Isabelle telling her she doesn't need to find that person are suddenly invalid because now it's all _do it, show me, just find them, they'll fill the hole in your chest._

You ask her _what hole? _and she's giving you the oddest look. But she just figures that you only realise when you've found them because now that's all she can seem to remember.

Years of just being _her _are gone, wiped away. It's Jace and Isabelle and Isabelle and Jace and _we _and _our _and _us _and _them. _

You want to scream and cry and yell at the unfairness of it all because you never got that, you never got to be assured that someone out there would _always _be there for you. Instead you're stuck somewhere in which all identity is lost because they have someone else's name imprinted upon them and stitched into their genetic code as _who they are supposed to love?_

When you put it like that it's almost unsettling.

Who would want to be twisted like that? Being let free and then caged again because of the circumstances of your birth.

But you want it. (You _really, really _want that. Then you would know that _Clary _and _Jace _was nothing and that you would become _we, our, us, them.) _It would be so much simpler. And you _need _simple.

(Rather than burning leather and half-formed words.)

…

Simon is twenty when you meet him, you're nineteen. He's sweet and kind and has the most adorable smile that _just melts your insides_. His features are in shades of brown, chocolate eyes and copper hair.

You think that the opportunity, when you see the _CLARISSA_on his wrist, is too golden to pass up. Your name _Clary (and Jace) _is shades away and _you just want to belong. _

It's almost too easy when you whisper to him one day that he is yours, he snaps the information up. He doesn't believe that you could ever lie to him, and doesn't question why you still don't unwrap the leather _(burning) _decorating your arm. He must have made some story in his head about _parents _and _indebted. _

And just like everything else about him, it's easy and calm and sometimes you're _so fucking bored._

It's not worth it, you realise, when _they _enter the room – smile and laughter and holding hands – and what you tried to create, the fantasy in which the burning desire _did not exist, _just crumpled.

As if you hadn't even tried.

And you want, _want, _Jace's hands over yours and Jace's lips and just for him to _be there, _rather than _safesafesafe _touches from _cautiouscautiouscautious _Simon. You want passion and fire and heated sessions of make outs in dark corners or in public because you wouldn't care if anyone saw.

Still, though, when Simon asks you if anything's wrong, because he's got into the habit of putting you first, you shake your head, mumble something about a headache. He frowns, then smiles, knitting your hands together on the seat.

You would take your hand away but the sheer happiness on his face stops you. (What were you trying to prove anyway? Jace and Isabelle are in the corner, faces and fingers and hair entangled beyond comparison.)

…

The stone is cold beneath your feet but the buzz from all the alcohol and the party (that everyone seemed to have kept a secret until you turned twenty one) have blurred the edges of your vision and you just don't want to go back inside. The crisp air is in stark contrast to the pressing weight you felt when you were around all those people, and the slight _hissss _of the stone on your warm skin wakes you up just that bit more.

The soft rhythms of the music were echoed by the vibrations of the floor as you take the cigarette out of your pocket and light it, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the dark night. You'd tried making smoke rings once – it didn't work.

"Fancy seeing you out here." Jace stood opposite you on his – Isabelle's – balcony. His hair looked like his hand had been run through it and the shirt he wore was half unbuttoned, showing his muscular chest. You try not to stare.

"You weren't at my party." Is what you say. Somehow, it hurt (though it shouldn't, you've barely talked and when you did _Isabelle _was always there.)

He shrugs, and his shirt slips down more. You watch the embers glow against the darkness. (They're _burning, burning, burning.) _"You don't strike me as the type that likes crazy parties. I guessed you didn't want someone else to invade your space."

Isabelle never knew that, Simon never knew that. _Jace knew that._

A grin, unwanted, graces your lips as you hide your blush behind your hair. Hopefully, since her cheeks are the same colour, he wouldn't notice the difference. You hum an affirmative, wary that your voice might just show how that made your heart burst into a dozen tiny little fragments with the simple joy that _jace knew, jace knew, jaceknew._

"But, it's your birthday and I couldn't not get you something." And he's leaning over, so close that you can almost feel his body heat and if you tilted your head even slightly to the right you would touch the space between his shoulder and his neck, and he's placing a small, wrapped article into your hand.

He lingered for _1… 2… 3… _seconds longer, giving you a nervous smile and then he's back to his position before and you're just that excited you haven't noticed that his shirt has slipped just that much and leave nothing to the imagination. (Not that you needed it, all those summer months spent by the beach with Isabelle and Alec and Jace have left you with impressionable memories about the effects of going to the gym every night and playing a dozen sports on top of that.)

The package which is holding all of your attention is wrapped in plain wrapping paper with weird, rune like designs over it. It's long and angular and _heavy. _It's funny, you'd always thought that if Jace were to give present to people he'd be more of the give them alcohol or money and let them have their way with it but this is neither and the pit at the bottom of your stomach burns brighter.

You carefully, _carefully, _tug at the paper making sure that if it is precious, then you won't drop it or damage it in anyway. This is Jace's gift (and it's probably going to be better than a bracelet you're never going to wear which is what Simon got you) and you _must _treat is as such.

When you see it, the crystalline edge and the way it catches the light you didn't know was there, and the engravings in the blade and the _M _that decorates the handle you know that Jace _know you. _Better then you best friend and your boyfriend and it's almost disconcerting because you _never spend time together. _

You leap over the railing onto his, wrapping your arms around his neck and whispering a thank you into his ear. Your heart thumps and you don't know how long you should hug his before pulling away because _jacejacejace. _You hold on though, because that it what you do.

"I don't think I've seen anyone look that happy after receiving a knife." He jokes and returns the embrace. (You feel the heat of his blush against your cheek.)

…

It's late and they're arguing. You're trying to decide whether the whole street can hear or if it's just because your windows are open. After another bout of violent shouting, and the sound of something smashing, you come to the conclusion that the whole street, _the whole bloody street, _would be able to hear them.

Something else smashes and you can hear Isabelle screaming something. You're not sure which one is going to be thrown out the house because it was Isabelle's house, but she always seemed like the type to grab her stuff and leave to go to a friends. (You try not to think about how in romance movies arguments always end in a passionate session of bodies slamming against walls and murmured _sorrys_ between kisses.)

Something else smashed, glass on a wall and another shout of _Get Out, _then a door slamming and a car driving away.

You bow your head, happy that Simon isn't here, because he would ask you what was wrong and that was the problem – nothing was wrong, you were fighting a bubble of happiness from escaping your chest.

…

It had been four years after you met Simon that he found out. He had wanted to know why you bothered hiding _who you are_ and she had just… snapped. Because you were your own person, you weren't a name on your wrist and even if you were it wasn't his name.

He had gone pale, and his whole body seemed to be locked in rigidness. The muscles in his face worked, tensing them relaxing them clenching to the right. A vein on his neck stood out. (For some reason, this annoyed you.)

"What." It was a whisper, hardly anything to the exclamation you had just thrown at him earlier and far worse than if he had shouted right back at you because somehow that one word was sharper than horse throats and raised voices.

It wasn't even a question either, it was just a simple _what. – _something that you say when you don't quite believe something, but you _know _is true.

You answer it as if it's one anyway, and you press down your hurt and the pang of guilt that makes you want to go over to him and wrap your arms around his body, and use the words as weapons; sharp and brittle, meant to strike deep then snap and stay there. You use them that way so that he _never _comes back.

You hate it, _hate it hateit, _but you do it because you don't want Simon, Simon is not what you need either and you need to make him see that. Make him see that they need to the same thing, fire and ice and a great pounding inside. Not a gentle flame that is going to flicker at even the slightest jolt.

You send him away, and pretend not to see the shine of his eyes or how little he took that was his. You pretend not to see that Isabelle is running out the house towards the car that Simon's about to drive off and asking him if he's okay. You pretend not to see Jace sneak out the back of the house and leave you a note through the letterbox –_sorry. _

(You know what Isabelle meant by _hole _now.)

What you do do, is rub at your exposed wrists, feeling skin on skin, rather than leather. It feels good, it feels free.

…

Isabelle is away… _somewhere._

You're not exactly sure where, all she told you was that she was going away for the week and that you were to keep Jace company.

(Like he was a dog.)

You head to their house as soon as she's halfway down the street.

The door is open but Isabelle is always forgetful and Jace probably wasn't even awake then Isabelle left but not because he's lazy but rather because it's five o'clock in the morning and you really shouldn't be awake and ready to stalk your next door neighbour but you are.

You close it behind you and move down the wooden panelling of the hallway to the tiled kitchen. Everything is in shades of grey, white and black – from the paintings that sparsely decorate the wallpapered walls to the tabletops of the sidebar.

It had always struck you as impersonal and removed, you'd always put it down you your house having the same layout and you decorating it with warm colours, but now, when no one was here with you to lighten up the pressing closeness of the walls and the weighted silence that seemed to echo around the house you think it's more than that.

It's like no one lives here.

There's no clutter, no life, no anything.

Your breath comes out in white puffs (flashes of warm hugs and sharp presents come to the forefront of your mind) as you turn to leave. Because being here feels wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

A chuckle stops you and you see Jace, shirtless and only wearing shorts sitting at the table. It only takes you a second to see the bottle next to him and see the red that rims his eyes.

He looks tired and sad and angry.

You want to go. (But you can't.)

"Jace?" You don't need to ask the question, he's already seen you, and a grin, twisted and hurt, is on his face. It doesn't look like his face now. "Are… Are you alright?"

It's stupid, because clearly nothing is alright. He's drunk and crying and the flesh of his arm is raw and bleeding. _He's bleeding, _lines of blood tracing dark patterns down his arms onto the dark surface of the marble where he was sitting.

He laughs but it turns into a wheeze and then a groan and he's suddenly up and alert and taking another sip of his drink. "No, Clary, do I look alright?"

You don't know what to do, because you want to help (it's like an itch, it won't go away unless you have a cloth to his arm and are muttering reassurances in his ear) but on the other you want to get out. The cold has seemed to seep into everything, the walls, the floor, Jace, draining everything.

But then Jace is talking again, arms flailing and angry spitting about Isabelle and Simon and how he just found out that he was going to see that _weasel. _The boring, mundane, geek weasel of a person who had taken what he considered, and what the name on her arm considered, to be his.

And he's crying and asking questions you don't have an answer to so all you do, _all you can do_, is take the smashed bottle out of his hand and hold him while he pours out his heart that belongs to someone else that took it in their hands and broke it into a thousand shards of glass.

…

Simon called, "hey, look, I'm sorry. Tell Jace that." It was a voicemail, so you're not sure what he would have said if you had actually had the courage to pick up the phone. If it had been you, and you had made the move on Jace first you wouldn't even be sure you'd be making the call Simon just did.

But, you're not Simon, and you were never meant for him.

…

Jace spends all his nights out and he returns smelling like drugs and alcohol and with bloody fists and black eyes.

You spend most of yours patching him up, making sure that none of his cuts get infected and that every last inch of whatever he gets stuck in his hands this time is taken out.

You don't touch the cuts on his arm though, and you know he's grateful for that. He wants it to scar, so he never has to look at it again. (You secretly hope you never have to see it again either.)

…

The next time the phone rings its Isabelle. Jace is out, jogging. You'd told him he needed the fresh air, and he'd happily agreed, hurriedly changing out of his jeans and t-shirt in exchange for something more suited for an hour of running around roads and forest paths.

(You don't tell him that while he is gone, you're going to pack away Isabelle's possessions that she left behind.)

"Clary," her voice is tired and there are the soft murmurs of people talking in the background. "Do you-" she breaks off and Clary just about hears the words _fuck it_ and then she's back on the line, talking rapidly and with more confidence and sounding less like she's just got out of bed. "Do you know a time when I can come around to pick up my stuff?"

When you reply, she says she'll be there in ten minutes.

She arrives at the door in twenty. (You know it's stupid that you feel another stab of betrayal when she arrives – worried and constantly twitching and jumping at every sound – but she told you _ten_ and it ended up being twenty. Just like she promised Jace forever and was only with him for seven.)

"Is… is he going to be back soon?" It's the first thing she asks and the skin around your knuckles is white.

"No." And you open the door wider, letting her into Jace's house. It might as well be yours for all the time you spend in your own. (The thought fills you with the warmth you've learned to associate with Jace.)

A few hesitant steps and then she's moving and ducking and weaving and placing random pictures and items into the cardboard boxes you hadn't seen folded under her arm. She keeps on sending worried looks towards the door, as if Jace is about to run in, screaming and holding a bloody knife, ready to stab her and leave her for the dead.

But Jace only left thirty minutes ago, and he may be gone for longer than an hour. (He may return like he does at night, but you try not the think that.)

The house is left more empty than it was before when Isabelle left, hugging you once and letting her lips rest on your cheek for _1… 2… 3… _seconds and then moving off. Waving you good bye and stuffing the boxes into the back of her car.

In your hands is one jumper, the one you got for her one Christmas – it's big and bright blue with a reindeer knitted onto its front – it still smells like her.

When Jace comes back, he takes one look at the skeleton of the house and falls against the table again. (He's holding the only thing of Isabelle he has left.)

…

Jace doesn't go out anymore. He's pale and sweating and his hands shake and he still doesn't go out. He doesn't eat much, even when his bones become visible through the tight shirts he wears. He doesn't _do _much either. He watches television, he goes onto his laptop, he holds the minimum of what is deemed as conversation.

(At night you can hear his sobs through the walls. You close your eyes and plug in your headphones, but only after making sure that all the knives have been locked away.)

He is alive, but he is not living.

…

The dark shapes that he tried to erase from his wrist seem to be lifted through the scaring. The words are muted and torn into a dozen pieces but are recognisable. (He can't bear to look at them.)

You do the only thing that you think might help and take him into town, but around the edges – the places that no one enters because _something bad _might happen. Shadows always seem to be cast over everything, and the buildings almost seem to lean in towards one another, blocking light and caging you inside.

Jace gives you the strangest look when you take him to this place. He's only ever seen you as innocent, and now you're taking him to the roughest part of where you both live. He doesn't ask though, maybe because you never asked him questions, maybe because he already has the answers.

You enter the doorway, steel and metal welded into a rectangular shape, nodding slightly to the bald man sitting behind the counter. He smiles back, happy to go back to reading his car magazine. They're always happy to see the customers return again.

A huge figure suddenly blocks your way, shoulders just lining up with your face, giving you a face full of muscle. The man is staring down at you; grey eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the right marred slightly by a scar running the length of his face. "Clary?"

You nod your head, not having to look behind you to know that Jace is wide-eyed and confused.

"No questions right." The man says, and then steps out of your way, calling out for one the many men hanging around the smoke filled room. "Jordan, it's Red."

A thin, wiry, tanned figure steps out from the crowd – no older than twenty. A scroll of tattoos wrap around his exposed right arm and his hair is cut jaggedly, underneath his features are sharp and angular, his eyes a deep brown. _(Simons eyes simons eyes simonseyessimonseyes.) _"Bring them the fuck over Bat, I don't do home deliveries."

Bat sighs, muttering something under his breath before gesturing to Jordan and saying that 'you know the shit.' He walks off leaving you alone with a startled Jace and an impatient Jordan.

You take Jace's hand (you ignore the fact that you are so close to his wrist that you can feel the beat and pulse of his blood under your fingertips, and the way this makes it seem like your own heart skips and then dances to its own rhythm. But what you do is squeeze his hand when he grips yours just as tightly.) and take him to the small chair that Jordan is near.

The person in question has another joint in his hand, lighting it up and slipping it into the corner of his mouth. He offers you one, not even sparing a glance at Jace, you say no, making some joke about having a clear head if he was going to work. He waves his hand, grinning into the corner of his mouth which isn't preoccupied, and: "it helps me concentrate."

You don't doubt him.

"What do you want this time?" The smell of herbs always surrounded Jordan, you smelt it when he came closer to you and when he painted your back with swirls and lines and ragged edges. You've come here so many times that it's second nature to feel the tip of the blade on your skin and the presence of illegal substances to stick with you for days. Of course it would be you getting the tattoo, but it isn't – you've had enough to take your mistakes away.

"It's actually…" You trail off jabbing a thumb towards Jace.

Jordan shrugs, "guess I won't see you without your top this time." He turns to Jace, "what do you want?"

Jace stands there for a few seconds, then reaches forward and points to one of the pictures lining the walls.

Jordan chuckles, "you sure mate? It's permanent, and you won't be able to hide something that big." His gaze flickers to me for a second, before returning to the blonde.

"I'm sure."

You spend the next half hour watching the letters fade under the ink, and the victory that burns in Jace's eyes.

You took him here so that no questions would be asked – you hope that he's glad for it.

You return home with sweeping black lines linked into the skin of Jace's arm, winding upwards under his shirt, the edges are raw, rimmed with red. You don't ask him what it means, but it must mean something when he used it to cover scars he wanted to forget.

He tells you anyway, "I don't want to be _under_ _anyone_ anymore."

You remember the story of the little boy and how his dad snapped the falcon's neck. (You don't tell him.)

…

Smoke spirals up into the air, small white puffs rising up into the dark night before disappearing into the vast emptiness. The sounds of cars and traffic rise up from the city _just _right of where you live and the lights blaze in the perfect movement of the night. The noises would normally send you to sleep, but tonight, no matter how hard you try, you just can't.

Hence the sitting on the roof to watch people live while you smoke to try and relax. It's not really working, all its doing is making your pulse race and your head fill with thoughts on eaten out insides, black and torn.

(It must be lack of sleep you tell yourself – because you're certain that you're actually smoking a cigarette and not drugs – that you are thinking about all your science lessons where they told you that smoking would kill you from the inside out.

(Tar and collapsing lungs and coughing and rattling breath.))

"Again?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

He comes to sit down next to you, warmth radiating off him, but that could be the fact that it's four degrees and he's just come from a house powered by central heating. "Yeah, well, you seem lonely."

_Lonely, I'm lonely,_ _lonelylonelylonely._

He reaches behind him into one of his pockets, taking out a white packet. "I thought you would need more." He points to the cigarette that's only burning inches away from your lips. You take it out quickly, hastily grinding it into the slates. In the barely there light you can see where the fire has left a black mark.

He leaned in to give it you, and you are aware that his skin is touching yours and that his muscles are pulled taunt and that his lips are only centimetres from yours. He touches your arm for _1… 2… 3… _seconds before he leaned back to where he was sitting. You shiver slightly, the cold sending a tremble up your spine after the sudden loss of Jace's warmth.

You ignore it. (You don't want to, you want to lean into him and let him wrap your arms around him and kiss him until all traces of cold are gone. You can't though. So you ignore it.)

You open the package with shaky fingers, but so carefully – if you let go of it for a second it would slip and fall away and then you wouldn't have anything to calm you down when all you could think about was Jace and rotting from the inside.

You ignore the warning – smoking kills (tar and coughing and dying, dying, _dying)_ – and your fingers are _shaking, shaking, shaking. _Before you can drop it, long fingers take it off of you, pianist fingers.

You turn to him and he's smiling slightly, placing it in his own mouth and taking a drag before handing it back to you. It's almost as if Jace's lips are on yours when you do the same as him – mint and pepper and it _tastes _like him.

"Sorry." (You feel like you're apologising for more than almost dropping an unlit cigarette.)

He shrugs, "everyone makes mistakes." (You _know _he's talking about more than an unlit cigarette.)

Neither of you say anything.

…

Sebastian doesn't care that you are broken, or that no letters are written on your wrist, or that you are in love with someone who is love with someone else who was in love with you. (And it's all one big circle of loving and losing.)

He doesn't care about that, he's all smiles and grins and dimples in both cheeks – you swore on your life that they were lopsided (it didn't make it any less cute) - and it was amazing to find someone who actually _look _at you.

Not like Simon who only saw what he wanted to, because he had seen a dozen instances where your behaviour wasn't quite right, and not like Jace who had looked through you and now only in the corner of his eye.

No, Sebastian sees you for the scared girl you are.

He doesn't care. (About a lot of things, but you don't know that as well as you should.)

It wasn't just that that drew you to him; it was that he was the same as you, nameless, ownerless, forgotten, pushed around.

That was why when he asked you for a drink you said yes. That was also why you laughed and smiled and shot his glances at his cute dimples when he wasn't looking. It was also why when he offered to walk you home you said 'sure.'

It wasn't why you kissed him back when he leaned in. You didn't want that from Sebastian, Sebastian was _that _friend, the one that you would happily treat as a little brother and nothing more.

You kissed Sebastian because you were lonely and feeling used and _you wanted someone to notice you _and _not look through you._

You kissed him because you didn't want Jace to look through you.

He still did.

…

You don't know exactly how it happened. All of a sudden you were just _so angry. _It was as if years of relenting beneath others and being pushed out the way had suddenly caught up with you and boiled over – flooding your veins with hot blood. Everything you thought of was bent and twisted and distorted, seen through a red haze of _hatehatehate._

Picking up the chair and throwing it through the wall was so relieving. And for a few seconds you just stood there, staring at the hole in the wall, hands loosely clenched at your side, your heart pounding a jagged rhythm in your ears and it felt so right.

Glass shattered and broke under your control, wood cracked and splintered and all your fabrics were ripped and shredded. Paper was torn and the words lost in the many pieces that fluttered to the ground. And all you felt was the anger, powering your every move making it all so _natural. _(Throwing your teddies against the wall had nothing on this.)

It only took minutes before your energy just _drained _away and you collapsed to the floor, tears burning in your eyes that fell as you blinked. (When were you crying, you didn't cry, why were you crying?) Your hands, which had been holding one of your paintings, just _gave up _and it fell to the floor, where plates and glass and paper and fabric were covering the tile, landing with a definite _thunk. _

Your body, which had been barely standing before, toppled to the side, so that you were breathing in the ruins of what you had done. It was different from when you smoked, here, it was like inhaling stone that clawed at your throat and cut your lips. You knew it wasn't like that, not really, and that it was all in your head, but it hurt, so _so _much.

The front door opened and in came Jace, probably to check up on your absence for longer than the five minutes it should have taken you to get more clothes. He sighed, and then the floor cracked beneath him as he walked over to pick you up. "Hey, Clary, I'm going to take you to my house, alright?"

(Your fingers twitched, you wanted to say no, but you couldn't because your body was rotting – like someone who was already dead inside – and your head was caving in on itself _– bang, bang, bang – _ and you wanted an escape.)

You replied with the only thing you could. "Alright."

…

"What was that?" He's always very blunt, never skirting around something, he likes to address a problem head on. (You just called yourself a problem.) He doesn't give you any time to think of an excuse, or even think of what you would say truthfully, he just wants an answer so he can fix whatever it is that's breaking his pattern.

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, but all that you can really seem to do is let out sharp, gasping breaths. Your whole body trembles, and you want something to help you down. You reach for the joint in your pocket, but Jace intercepts, taking it before you can even protest.

"No drugs. Answer my question."

You have no choice but to now, but what are you going to say? That you just got angry and you don't know why, or tell him the truth – that you were angry at the world for cursing you.

Then you would have to tell him. (About burning leather and half-formed lies.)

"I-" You stop before you've even started, and you only just realise you've never really ever spoken – about anything. "I, I was just… _so _angry."

Jace leans in, his pianist fingers twisting around a lighter in his hand. "About what?"

You bite your lip, hard enough that you could have drawn blood. You don't though. Then you lift up your arm, and gently unclasp the leather that had made residence on your wrist since you were five. So much so that your skin was even paler than it was on the rest of your body.

You winced when you saw what a state it was in, scars crisscrossed over each other from years ago – when you didn't understand why. Black lines from where you had once got a tattoo made an appearance every now and then, not forming a coherent shape but seemed to be in a pattern. It was still blank.

_Empty, forgotten, broken, unwanted, alone-_

Jace reached for it, and gently took it in his own hand, the one that was covered with an eagle, to stop him remembering. His fingers traced the raised shapes of the wounds as if they were each special and unique and not ugly and marring.

"Oh Clary." Was all he said and then the other hand, the one hand touching the imperfection went to your cheek, brushing away one of the stray tears that had fallen. "It doesn't matter Clary." And then he bent down and kissed where his fingers has been, each and every scar.

(It wasn't something a friend would do, but you were crying and fragile and didn't have enough confidence to lift his lips you yours and take him upstairs. You really wish you did.)

…

He kissed you after, and you forgot why you were crying, or that your lips tasted like salt, all you knew was of mint and pepper and what he tasted like –

_home_.

(You haven't told him you love him yet, you want to but you're too nervous and whenever the perfect moment comes up the words are barely tasted on your tongue before you choke and tear up (again). Trying to force the words to come was like trying to tell Isabelle about Jace and you don't want the first time you say it to remind you of that.

Instead you sit in the dark, mouthing the words over and over, and pretend you are confident enough to say it to his face, and that if you say it enough times you might just forget about everything that's stopping you.

You hope that if Jace stays with you long enough, he'll give you that.)

…

_em, yeah, happy ending, wooo. eh, please leave a review 'cause it'll make me feel better about how this came out way worse than what i wanted it to be like. _

_thanks for suffering through this._

_(oh, and if any of your would like to be my beta (and my online bestie) feel free to drop me a pm, or a message on tumblr.)_

_Snow._


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